


Disappearing Act

by Ad3ryn



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, No nations were (permanently) harmed in the making of this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-13 02:57:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14740742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ad3ryn/pseuds/Ad3ryn
Summary: England's brother disappeared fifty years ago. For the past fifty years, England spent this day in the company of nothing but a bottle of alcohol and an unwilling Frenchman. After half a century, that tradition is suddenly smashed in two.





	Disappearing Act

**Author's Note:**

> Nation and human names are used interchangeably. Please note that as the story progresses, it will begin to focus more on the Kirkland brothers, rather than the friendship between England and France (I just happen to really like writing France).
> 
> Names used:  
> Scotland - Iain  
> Ireland - Seamus  
> Wales - Dylan  
> Northern Ireland - Andrew (Aindréas)

The last fifty years had been tenuous for the United Kingdom - though, really, only those with intimate knowledge of that family would have known that anything was amiss. One of their own had disappeared, quite suddenly. One day, he’d been there. And the next…

 

He simply wasn’t.

 

The remaining siblings would never admit it, save for maybe at gunpoint, but there had been a dynamic between the whole of them that had been carefully crafted over the centuries. The eldest had been aggressive, brash, and rude. Picked fights with his siblings, insulted and berated them, his motivations regularly going unquestioned. The next in line was wild, discontent; the nomad of the lot of them. The third eldest was the calm in the storm of Britons; the peacekeeper, the mother that they had lost. The second youngest was their unifier; he’d been the focal point, ever since he had been the youngest.

 

And when Northern Ireland had appeared one day, the dynamic had shifted, and Scotland, Ireland, Wales, and England found themselves struggling to adjust. Arguments and squabbles settled themselves more regularly when a young North’s tears threatened to make themselves known; the child had been quite easy to startle, and he could cry at the slightest inconvenience. Ireland and England fought over the child regularly. England, however, had the distinct advantage of sharing a home with the tyke.

 

North had learned how to stand his ground from Scotland, but he’d learned the art of compromise from Wales. Naturally calmer than the rest of his siblings, it wasn’t long before he took after the Welsh nation more and more. Compromise turned to mothering, which turned the dynamic on its head for the second time in barely a decade, flipping back to tails. _Nearly identical to what it had been._

 

But this time, North had taken Wales’ spot as the mother hen, and he was much better at it. As the youngest by quite a large margin, he naturally held his family’s attention and had become adept at deflecting conflict. And so, within a few more years, everything had settled into a familiar pattern.

 

Minus one body.

 

It had come as no surprise, really. As unique as his culture had been, the country of _Wales_ hadn’t existed for centuries. First squashed under an English thumb, then pointedly ignored in favour of Scotland come 1707. Not even the flag of the ‘United’ Kingdom bore any tribute to the land of song.

 

And so when the day came where England barged into his brother’s home, asking him where the hell he’d been, no one was surprised that the response had been silence and a layer of dust.

 

Everyone took it hard, of course - but England inevitably took it the hardest. He’d always been one to easily crack under pressure, especially when he lacked the confidence to push himself out there. Dylan had been his kick in the ass more than once, and while Arthur spluttered and complained about it at every turn, he’d been eternally grateful.

 

For the six months after that, he’d developed an unhealthy obsession with Welsh culture, going so far as to read a copy of the Mabinogion that he’d been gifted many, many years prior by Wales.

 

But that was all behind closed doors, of course. Only the most privileged saw how England had coped with his brother’s disappearance, not to mention knowledge of the disappearance of Wales in general.

 

France was, in a way, quite thankful for his proximity to the isolated nation. Not particularly privy to announcing his intentions, France had happened upon the stuffy Brit’s terrible coping mechanisms on more than one occasion. He’d even helped a handful of times - it was one of few secrets that the two of them shared.

 

On the twentieth anniversary of Wales’ disappearance, Arthur had gotten piss drunk and showed up at his doorstep, soaking wet and smelling like he hadn’t had a shower in a week. His eyes, the colour of the grass in an idyllic field, were dark and glassy; the extent to which his pupils were dilated spoke volumes of his level of inebriation.

 

France only had a chance to give a startled shout before England had collapsed against him, grip surprisingly tight despite his lack of motor skills.

 

France knew what day it was, of course. He’d kept track of the date specifically for the England question: ‘Why did you get drunk this time?’.

 

He sighed and patted England’s back calmly, waddling the two of them into his home so he could kick the door shut. Easier said than done, when one was hauling the dead weight of a drunken nation on them. But nonetheless, France succeeded in his first task and set to work on the second, shuffling the two of them to the couch where he’d allowed his visitor to wrap his arms around his torso. Resting a hand on the small of his back, France waited patiently for what would be a characteristic tear-stained, drunken ramble as England lamented the loss of his brother.

 

Which wasn’t _that_ bad, all things considered. The other kind of drunk England was a viciously horny one. It wasn’t the case this time - he most likely abstained from rum and went straight into whiskey, which was probably for the best.

 

And like clockwork, England began his ramblings without warning, voice warbling from a mix of drunken tears and an alcoholic haze.

 

“He was always too bloody nice. All sunshine and rainbows, acting like he gave a damn! Telling me to go here or do this, like it would guarantee the best outcome. Such a politician, two-faced bastard. Conniving twit.” The muttered string of curses continued for a while longer, until England sucked in a sharp breath, grip on France tightening.

 

“Stuck with me after everything I did to him - _for_ him. We fought so bloody rarely but he had a temper with everyone else. Why? **Why was I any different**?” France pursed his lips quietly and gave England a gentle pity pat; soft enough, he wasn’t even certain if the Brit had felt the gesture.

 

“He could have reacted the way Ireland did.” The response was instantaneous, and much more sullen than he had cared to admit.

 

“But he _didn’t_.” The conversation had lulled after that, and France found himself lightly dozing until a particularly violent snore ripped itself from England’s throat. Cursed into wakefulness, he was at least blessed enough for England’s grip to have slackened somewhat. Even France had a limit with his patience, and he found himself longing for his own warm, comfortable bed - rather than the seldom-used couch, where he could double as a bony cushion for an unappreciative nation from across the channel.

 

England was due to be comatose for the next few hours, and so France cared little for how he manhandled the other nation. Grumbling with exhaustion-induced irritation, he ripped England’s penny loafers off with little care for their condition and hefted England’s legs up onto the couch, haphazardly throwing the quilt from the back of the couch over his prone form. The sleeping nation shifted almost immediately, pillowing his head into one of the many throws that drowned the cushions on France’s couch.

 

Were he more awake, perhaps he would have considered it rather cute. Right now, however, France could care less; with a muttered ‘bonne nuit’ to no one but himself, he trudged back to his bedroom, where he’d fallen asleep for a precious, uninterrupted eight hours.

 

Thirty years later, not much had changed. It had become the fiftieth anniversary of Wales’ disappearance. A strange tradition had taken root over the past decade or so; France would find himself at England’s house, hopefully early enough before the Brit drank himself into a stupor once more. He'd made the two of them something ‘worthy’ of Arthur’s ‘refined’ palate, and then the two of them drank themselves stupid together.

 

Seeing as Scotland and the Irelands also did their own thing on this day, and it was inevitable that England would end up in France’s presence like a homing beacon no matter what he did, France had decided to go along for the party. He’d known Wales well enough.

 

And, well.

 

_If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm literally the most inconsistent person in the world so please bear with me.


End file.
